


Job Description

by magician



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Community: sentinel_thurs, Domestic, Early in Canon, Gen, Sentinel Thursday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-21 19:12:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11950815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magician/pseuds/magician
Summary: What's a guide's job? Blair is still trying to figure it out.  Takes place about a month after "The Debt".





	Job Description

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [ Sentinel Thursday ](https://sentinel-thurs.livejournal.com/), an awesome challenge site chock full of great reading that's still alive and well after _fourteen years_ on LJ. Wow! The prompt was "chief".

Blair Sandburg sighed as he turned the slow cooker to low and gave his stomach a stern talking-to. _You can wait another half-hour. Jim needs us_.

It had been his turn to cook dinner.  Having only lived in Jim's place for about a month, Blair wanted to make sure he did everything right.  He'd gotten up early--for him--to sauté the beef chunks and put them in the slow cooker with seasonings, broth and a cup of red wine.  He'd set it to cook slowly all day before leaving, then hurried home from the university to finish.  Chopping carrots, onions, potatoes and mushrooms, he added them to the pot and turned up the heat so they would be tender by the time Jim arrived from work.  The loft smelled heavenly.  Since he'd missed lunch, Blair was more than ready to eat, and more than proud of his creation.  He was sure Jim would love it.

But Jim had come home and hadn't even mentioned the smell.  In fact, he seemed distracted and was rubbing his nose, which looked a little red.  Perhaps he was getting a cold? 

"Ready for dinner?" Blair asked hopefully.

"Nah, I'm not hungry," came the reply.  "I think I'm going to turn in early."

Bed at six thirty?  That set off alarm bells.  "Wait a minute, Jim," Blair said, subtly blocking Jim's path.  "What's going on.  Are you getting a cold?"

"No."  Great.  A one-syllable reply.  Blair already knew that meant there was more information to be had. 

"Okay, so what's wrong?  Did something happen at the station?  I notice you've been rubbing your nose and it's a little red."

Jim scowled.  "Nothing I can't handle."

Blair straightened up a little, suspecting now that it was a sensory issue.  And, if that was the case, he needed to be involved.  "Did your senses act up?  Jim, you _know_ you have to let me know what's going on.  How can I help you if you keep this stuff from me?  When did--"

"Okay, okay!" Jim said, trying to muster annoyance.  Then his shoulders slumped. "We went to interview a potential suspect at his business.  It was a garment factory.  While we were on the sewing room floor, one of the workers spilled a bucket of something near us and the smell was just a little strong." He shrugged. "No big deal."

"What did they spill?  Did it smell like it was toxic?" Blair stopped himself.  How would Jim know anything about industrial chemicals and toxicity?  _What a bonehead question_.

Jim didn't seem to notice.  "Simon was with me," he answered. "He saw my reaction and asked.  He said it was sizing."

Blair started pacing. "Sizing," he repeated, talking to himself.  "Fabric sizing... kind of like starch... used to stiffen cloth. Okay, that's good.  I can work with that."   He stopped and turned to Jim. "Right now, get out of your clothes and take a long, hot shower.  The steam will clear out your sinuses and soothe them.  Make sure you wash everywhere and rinse really well so there's nothing left in your pores.  Are you having any other irritations?" he asked, reaching toward Jim's shirt.

"Sandburg," Jim growled, batting his hand away.  He turned to climb the stairs to his room, coming down with a change of clothes in hand.  His softest sweats, Blair noticed.  Jim headed to the bathroom.

After lowering the slow cooker, Blair took the opportunity to boot up his computer and research everything he could on fabric sizing.  It amazed him how much was involved in understanding Jim's senses, and how much Jim just _expected_ him to know and do.  It had started with simply teaching Jim how to control them and how not to zone, but had become so much more.  In the short time since they'd met, Blair had spent more time researching drug sensitivities, allergies and urban pollutants than he had for many of his college papers.  Since coming to live with Jim, he'd replaced all their toiletries and cleaning products with sentinel-friendly alternatives.  Jim was grateful enough, after he groused a bit, but he also seemed to expect Blair to provide all the answers. 

A phrase Blair's mom used came unbidden: _chief cook and bottle washer_.  He smiled as he considered its meaning.  Someone who did everything that needed doing, from the gourmet cooking down to the scut work.  When it came to sentinel solutions, that description seemed to fit him to a T.  _Maybe that's why he calls me Chief_ , Blair thought with a grin.  He wrote down the fabric sizing information and Jim's symptoms in a notebook, then shut down his laptop. 

He looked up as the bathroom door opened.  Jim came out, dressed and toweling his hair.  "How are you feeling?" Blair asked, then immediately worried that Jim would think he was hovering.

"A lot better," Jim admitted.  "And before you ask, I don't have any rashes and my nose has stopped itching."

"Great!  I was able to find out quite a bit about fabric sizing.  Considering your mild reaction, it was probably vegetable-based, so not too bad.  I can read you my findings."

"Maybe later, Chief," Jim said, holding up a forestalling hand.  "Right now, something smells delicious and I'm starving."

Blair grinned at the nickname, not offended that Jim didn't want the details; he rarely did.  He really was a bottom-line kind of guy.  "Have a seat, man.  It's all ready to go."

 

The end


End file.
